




Safe People 

A Story of the Stage 

By 

MARGARET B. SMITH 




Published by 

THE WESTBROOK PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1217 Market Street Philadelphia, Pa. 







©C1A679679 


M. 151922 


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— ®fje Author 


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'HERE are thousands of Lauras all 
over the world today. They , who 

are living their lives with the life worth 
while , are ofttimes misunderstood hy their 
fellow men. 


The Laura of this story is an attempt to 
characterize and comment upon their lives 
in general. 

She exists everywhere — in the small town 
as well as the great city. She is to be found 
in the home, or office— in every walk, of 
civilization. People criticise her for they 
know her not. They prefer to take her as 
they find her, rather than delve into the 
depths for her true self. 

Laura of these pages is a woman of the 
stage. She might just as well have been a 
wife or mother of the common folk . She 
would have in such a case played the same 
role as did the actress portrayed in “ Safe 
People”. She is the Personification of 
Sacrifice, the highest ideal of womanhood. 




















































Safe People 


7 


Safe People 

A Story of the Stage 
Chapter I 

HE name of Laura Marvine was usually 
associated with the risque and popular 
kind of bedroom farce. She was down 
on the agents' lists as “Comedy", and 
was reputed to be the highest paid actress 
of Henry Claveron's forces. Claveron was a the- 
atrical manager who ruled on the throne of supremacy 
in muck production. He was known as sure fire 
and nine of his shows had set records of long runs 
on Broadway. His comedies smacked of boudoir 
scenes, remarkable lingerie and rare and racy dia- 
logue. They boasted of invalid censorship laws, 
and Laura Marvine in Parisienne pajamas. 

To look at Laura Marvine, the actress, one would 
scarcely give her credit for possessing an ounce of 
emotion or genuine affection. She was totally 
incapable of anything but incisive indifference and 
a shrewdness that characterized the women of her 
class. 

Laura was hardened to the game. She had been 
in the comedy field for twelve years. She had made 
sport for audiences so long that vulgarity and 
degradation meant nothing to her now. She took 
it all as a matter of course — the grease-paint, the 
excitement and applause, the never ending but al- 
ways changing, eager young men who waited for her 
at the stage door and sent her flowers and “mash" 
notes. 

Laura accepted them and their flowers and mash 



8 


Safe People 


notes the same as she did everything else, with an 
air of polite indifference. She ignored the com- 
mendation of Claveron's press agents when they 
spoke of her as being “A Genius” and “An Actress 
of Great Vivacity and Charm.” 

Laura was absolutely honest with herself. She 
knew of the trivialness and depravity of her plays. 
She was convinced of her own corruptibleness. She 
had no misgivings at heart. Her life was gray and 
rather monotonous with the sun behind an unmoving 
cloud. 

The sun of Laura's life was her sister, Alma. Her 
whole world revolved around her, and the clouds 
were dimmed by the sun's magic rays. 

Alma was twenty-two, nine years her sister's 
junior. She was a fluffy-haired, rather helpless little 
creature, with wide appealing blue eyes, which was 
her way of claiming admiration. Nobody except 
Laura took Alma very seriously. She was too pretty 
and young and weak, just the sort of girl who re- 
quires a strong-minded person to lean and depend 
upon. 

Alma did lean upon Laura. It was Laura's lot 
to procure engagements for her sister. She saw 
to it that the girl played but the best parts in the 
most choice plays. The most reliable of managers 
and no road engagements were strictly adhered to 
in the selection for Alma. There was vagary to it 

Laura Marvine was willing to sacrifice herself 
and her own happiness that Alma might eat only the 
white bread of life. 

The luxurious apartment on Riverside Drive was 
paid for by Laura but for Alma's benefit was kept 
in good working order. It was Laura, the woman 
and not the actress, who managed it so skillfully. 
It was Laura who delighted to plan for her sister's 


Safe People 


9 


happiness and pleasure. She watched over Alma 
with eyes of great tenderness and devotion. There 
was never a thought for herself. She did not wish 
it to be so. 

2 

Laura, that winter, was playing a stellar role in a 
new Henry Claveron production, “A Pajama Scan- 
daT\ It was a most original and inaccurate little 
comedy, relating the adventures of a girl who pos- 
sessed a pair of very remarkable pink pajamas. 
The pajamas were not only extremely costly but 
made of very sheer silk and desired by every member 
of the cast. There were a great many difficulties 
and innumerable touches of suggestive humor. The 
play had been declared a brilliant success, and the 
box office receipts confirmed this affirmation. 
Laura's salary was seven hundred dollars weekly, 
and her name was to be seen in glaring electric 
lights over the front entrance of the theatre. 

Alma, at this time, was lending animation and 
color to the Warrington version of “The Home 
Town Girl. '' A more simple and fragile dramatiza- 
tion than this would be hard to find. “The Home 
Town Girl" had been adapted from a celebrated 
novel called “Little Sister", and the Epworth 
League had approved of it heartily. Unfortunately, 
for Alma they did not pay the salaries of the com- 
pany. She received but two hundred and fifty 
dollars per week. 

The audience in the Knickerbocker Theatre was 
for the most part of the feminine sex. Parents 
considered “The Home Town Girl" a very uplifting 
little play and promptly sent their children to see 
Alma Marvine as the little sister of the piece. 

Wives spoke to their husbands of Alma Marvine 
in the most glowing terms. 


10 


Safe People 


“A very sweet, refined girl/' they approved. The 
play is so sad and appealing. Miss Marvine cries 
real tears, you know! It is too bad that her sister 
is so utterly impossible !” 

The husbands preferred to laugh and not to cry. 
They remarked to each other knowingly, 

“ Dandy show at the Cort, ‘ Pajama Scandal', with 
Laura Marvine. That girl sure is some pippin, 
I'll say.” 


Chapter II 

It was breakfast hour in the Marvine apartment. 
Laura sat at the table, alone, stirring her chocolate, 
impassively. The morning papers along with the 
pile of mail lay untouched. The maid had just 
brought them in, but Laura's mind was occupied 
elsewhere. She was idly considering the problem 
of Alma's new spring costume. It should be blue, 
blue broadcloth she decided. Blue was Alma's 
color for it brought out the unusual tint of her eyes. 
Laura thought of a tailored hat to match it. The 
outfit atMalard's would cost her a good sum, but she 
could readily afford it. The season had been a most 
profitable one for her. Laura had signed up with 
Claveron's Company for another season in direct 
consequence. 

Alma entered the room draped in a long, blue 
breakfast gown. Her hair was down her back, and 
she looked ridiculously slim and childish. It was 
not so with Laura. By daylight the fatigues of 
toil and worry were visible enough. Her beauty 
was no longer fresh and unspoiled but rather the 
beauty of exhaustion. She was actually beginning 
to look her age; a thing an actress cannot afford 
to do. 


Safe People 


II 


Alma was loquacious. She desired to give her 
impressions of the party that she had attended the 
night previous. 

A real jolly bunch was there/' she said languidly, 
over her grape fruit. “Barney Bayard and that 
Herne girl who has just signed up with Dillingham. 
Stephen MacOwen, the dramatic critic of the 
T ribune , drove me home. He promised me a fine 
notice in his paper with an enlarged photograph." 

Stephen MacOwen! Laura's eyes narrowed per- 
ceptibly at the mention of his name. She had never 
met the man, but MacOwen had given her cause 
enough to hate him. He had stated rather pes- 
tiferously in his paper that Laura Marvine's only 
dramatic assets were her face and figure. He had 
said that she not only lacked distinction but with it 
self-respect for the presentation of her plays was an 
insult to public decency. He had said numerous 
other things about her which Laura knew to be true 
but which nevertheless hurt her most cruelly. 

A few unworldly instincts remained in her- — 
gratitude and a quick response to any kindness 
offered her from anybody. MacOwen had been 
brutally candid in his judgment, and Laura as a 
result felt a natural aversion to him. 

“What sort of a man is Stephen MacOwen, Alma?" 
she asked between tightening lips. 

“Oh, he's nice enough I guess — young and 
rather intelligent with his own ideas of women." 
Alma laughed and inspected her sister, warily. 

“MacOwen certainly tore you to tatters in his 
Off the Record write-up for the Tribune. I'm glad 
he approves of me. He doesn't hesitate to print 
what he thinks!" 

Laura was rather white, but she managed to 


12 


Safe People 


laugh with Alma — the laugh that had made her so 
popular in “A Pajama Scandal”. 

“Oh, I guess Stephen MacOwen won t put me 
out of the business,” she said flippantly, but with a 
dull pain at heart. 

Alma nodded without a shade of expression in 
voice or features, 

“Poor old Laura!” she said. “You do have a 
pretty hard time of it! Everybody misunderstands 
you and thinks you're as raw as your plays.” Her 
tone was dispassionate. Alma did not possess a 
very sympathetic nature. 

Laura made no reply for a moment, then abruptly, 

“I suppose they do. Well, I can't blame them, 
my dear.” She spoke without bitterness or even 
resentment. “They just take me as they find me — 
and it doesn't matter — much.” 

It was the longing of an actress to be a woman. 
The longing of a crocodile to be a white chrysan- 
themum. 


Chapter 1 1 1 

1 

Alma began to cultivate Stephen MacOwen's 
friendship. They were seen together in public 
places, but more often did MacOwen frequent their 
apartment. He would call for Alma at the theatre 
to take her home in the evening. Matinee days, 
they would remain down town and have dinner in 
a quiet, little, by-street cafe. There were a great 
many walks and motor rides in the country. Spring 
had come again, and the earth was verdant with the 
sentimentality of inspired youth. 


Safe People 


13 


Laura had gone on tour for nine weeks. Alone, 
Alma and. MacOwen rather overdid things and 
attended too many parties for their own good. He 
enjoyed her association and confidence, but the 
parties bored him a trifle; but they delighted her, 
and he was tolerant of them for her sake. Besides, 
all the while, MacOwen was studying Alma most 
carefully and this, also, helped to kill time. 

Alma apparently cared for him. She was a gay, 
charming little creature and her exhilaration and 
wit amused him. Vaguely, he was aware of her 
deference to him, too, and patiently he waited for 
an opportunity to exercise his great plan. It would 
come, sooner or later; he was confident of that fact. 

To the casual observer, there was a persistence 
of youth in Stephen MacOwen's features. But 
there were many marks, not lines, which marred 
an otherwise attractive face. He was a tall and 
well-set man. Physically, he was fit enough — with 
a certain candour in his clear blue eyes. It was 
quite possible that some mental solicitude had 
stamped itself in the fine lines at the corners of his 
mouth and in the angular shadows under the cheek- 
bones. 

MacOwen was a conversationalist, and his manner 
to women was uncommonly gracious. He made 
friends easily and kept them without any apparent 
effort. There was of him much of the unconscious 
charm usually known as good breeding. He fas- 
cinated Alma and in her letter to Laura, she spoke 
of him ardently and continually. 

She wrote of many other things to her sister in a 
rather confused, inaccurate manner but Laura 
recognized the truth from everything else. Alma 
was in love with Stephen MacOwen — the man 


14 


Safe People 


whom Laura Marvine could never forgive for his 
condemnation of her. 


2 

A Saturday night, Laura's show closed unexpect- 
edly in Philadelphia, and she took a late train back 
to New York. It was after two when she reached 
home — and with a sigh of relief closed her front door 
behind her. 

She was dead tired but her spirits were very high, 
and she stole in to take a peep at the sleeping Alma. 
Alma looked very fair and helpless, sleeping. She 
was as fragile as a bit of porcelain and very dear 
and priceless to Laura. She bent down and kissed 
her sister with great tenderness. 

“Oh, little Alma," she whispered softly, lest she 
should wake her. 

“Keep to the Safe People only, my dear!" 

Laura had not kept to them, but she had made 
the supreme sacrifice that her sister might never 
know the misery and disappointment of the world 
today. 

Alma opened her eyes to say drowsily, 

“I'm so glad you're home, Laura dear. You 
must meet Stephen. He's just the dearest boy in 
the world!" 

Laura smiled rather wearily. Years ago, she had 
said those very words, and they were still fresh in 
her memory. 


Chapter IV 

The room was very dimly lighted and Laura did 
not see him when she entered the room. He was 
sitting in an obscure corner, and she desired a book 
from her desk drawer. She searched for it dili- 


Safe People 


15 


gently; it ought to be there among her letters and 
papers, but persistently wasn't. 

The man rose to his feet and coughed apologet- 
ically. Laura turned quickly, but she could not 
see his face well in the shadows. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. “I didn't know 
there was anyone in here. Wait and I'll turn on 
the other lights. Alma will be home in a very few 
minutes now." 

‘No, please don't turn the lights on! I would 
rather say what I have to say to you in the dark- 
ness." 

The voice rang in her ears, and she knew with a 
quick stab of pain, a peculiar numb sort of pain, 
who it belonged to. 

Stephen Kent was back! She took one step 
toward him, and her voice fell so low that he could 
scarcely hear her. 

“Stephen," she said, “I thought you were in 
Australia." 

“I have been in New York for nine months, 
Laura," he replied. “You know I could not stay 
away from you eternally. It has been five years 
since I have seen you, now." 

It had been five years of remorse and misery for 
her. She had loved him then, and still did love 
him with all her heart and soul. She had given 
him up for Alma's sake, but he did not know why 
she had sent him away. He had begged her to give 
up her stage career and to marry him. 

“A girl as fine as you are, Laura, should be in a 
safer game," Stephen had said, before his depar- 
ture. “The primrose path doesn't lead to happiness 
or to contentment, remember. You are good in this 
profession as long as your beauty and youth last 
and not a moment longer. And there'll come a time, 


16 


Safe People 


a sad time it will be for you, Laura, when you'll wish 
from the bottom of your heart that you had listened 
to me and kept to the Safe People." 

They were his last words to her, and his kindness 
had been a sacred memory. For the freedom to 
love! That alone would be blessed, Laura thought, 
now, upon the ashes of her dead youth. But her 
adoration for Alma had passed all understanding, 
and like a gay memory of light it flung its rays across 
the sombre background of her own sadness. 

It was a tragic history written in her pretty 
face — and in her set smile. Laura had to smile, 
rather grimly and a little wearily, when she thought 
of what she had missed by her choice of the Prim- 
rose Path. She had given up a good man's love, and 
a cozy home, and perhaps, little children — for Alma, 
but it was worth it. She was not really sorry. It 
had been a long, hard fight for her, but she had 
emerged from the battle, serene, friendly and self- 
sacrificed. 

“Stephen," Laura said, at length, very quietly 
and firmly, “you are not to come here any more. 
I have been frank with you. There is no hope for 
you or happiness. My work in the theatre means 
more to me than does anything else." 

She could have laughed at herself. The lie was 
so grotesque and so utterly hopeless. 

He looked at her for a minute in silence. 

“I can understand that remark," he said, a little 
wearily. “You sent me away for your success 
meant more to you than did my love. Well, Laura, 
there are few women who are as gifted as you are. 
God has given you beauty and personality and he 
meant for you to put them to some good use. And 
instead, you lavish them on stupid and unworthy 
things." There was bitterness in his tone. “Does 


Safe People 


17 


not the goal of worthwhile objects mean more to 
you?” 

The mounting sea of emotion swept her. She 
turned from him, unsteadily, her hands clenched, 
not daring to meet his eyes. Shame, for the lie 
that she had told, possessed her. She spoke the 
truth. 

“Yes, it does mean more to me. But I did not 
try for it in time, and it's too late for me now. I've 
been in this game too long, Steve, and my ideals 
have been pretty well shattered. A sorry, treacher- 
ous life it's been, and my race is practically run.” 
She continued steadily, and he had grown afraid, 
horribly afraid. 

“A few more years and my youth and good looks 
will he gone. Til be wrinkled and passe — and 
friendless, I’m afraid. But with my sister, Alma, 
it's entirely different. I have kept her unspoiled 
and idealistic, and she's good for a number of years 
yet to come. She is so spirited and sure of herself 
it would be a shame if anybody or anything deluded 
her. I was that way, once. I suppose you can 
scarcely believe it. Life and youth began very early 
for me — and lasted an equally short time. I'm 
thirty-one now, and few of your ‘Safe People' 
know how weary of pursuit and criticism I really 
am. '' 

He caught his breath sharply and passed one 
hand across his eyes. His face in the dim light was 
ghastly. 

“I returned home but a shadow of a man, with 
no hope, no outlook, no right to hope,'' he said. 
“I became bitter, thinking of the past and of you. 
I wanted to hurt you as you had hurt me. I 
wanted to make you suffer for your unfaithfulness 
and treachery. So, I took up newspaper work, and 


18 


Safe People 


finally, accepted the position of Dramatic Critic on 
the Tribune. Stephen MacOwen, the man who 
has condemned and ridiculed you, is none other than 
myself !" 

She waited, her lips colorless and set, her body 
quivering with the grief of a woman's love for a man. 

“Laura, you have two natures, and what you 
have told me just now, revealed your inner and true 
self to me. I know what you have done for Alma, 
given up all your chances for happiness. If only 
the persons who see Laura Marvine, the comedienne, 
make sport for them on the stage, could have a 
glimpse into her soul and not judge merely by her 
outer surface/' 

She slowly shook her head. 

“Tell me," she responded slowly, “do you not 
know what has happened? Or was it also in your 
plan of avengement to make Alma love you, Stephen 
MacOwen? Then, to break her heart — as you 
imagined I had done to you by sheer piquancy." 

He bowed his head in shame, and she knew that 
she was right. 

“Alma must never learn the truth, Stephen," 
she said very firmly. “For we must go on living 
eternally the lie we have started!" 

“Do you ask this of me, Laura?" 

“ I ask it." 

“And why, dear?" 

“For the love of Alma," she replied. 


Chapter V 

1 

Stephen was waiting for Alma to go riding with 
him in the park. Laura, passing through the hall, 
caught a glimpse of his great, broad shoulders 


Safe People 


19 


squared back as his hands were thrust in the pockets 
of his khaki coat. He was standing by the window, 
idly looking out upon the drive below where an end- 
less stream of motor cars and broughams swept 
by on the glittering current. 

Laura hurried into Alma's room where she found 
her sister pinning on her pretty, new sport hat. 

“Mr. MacOwen is here," she announced; then 
admiringly, 

“You do look so nice, Alma. That hat goes 
beautifully with your riding suit. I was very lucky 
to get it for twenty dollars, don't you think? Well, 
have a good time! I'll be here when you come 
back, dear." 

“Oh, do come out and speak to Steve!" Alma 
tucked her arm into Laura's, and spoke with a 
careless affection. 

“No? well, anyway, it's awfully sweet of you to 
stay in all afternoon on my account. Good-bye, 
and be sure and tell Westguard if he calls, I'm ready 
to sign that contract at any time. And when you 
write the hotel for my reservations, say I positively 
insist on having an ocean front room with a private 
bath and sitting room." 

Her voice dwindled away through the hall, and 
presently the front door clanged. Laura turned 
from the window only when she saw them enter 
MacOwen's touring car and drive out of sight. 

Alma was young with her life before her. And 
for everything desirable that was hers now, Laura 
had paid for richly with her own self-respect. 

Alma told her sister that evening of her engage- 
ment to Stephen MacOwen. 

“But we're not going to be married before Septem- 
ber, Laura," she said. 

“Then, I've decided to give up my stage career 
for Stephen's sake. You know, after all, I'll be 


20 


Safe People 


mighty glad to settle down and have a little home 
of my own, and perhaps later on, one or two babies. 
You never seemed to take to the quiet sort of life, 
Laura, but Fm different from you I guess !" 

Laura bent down and kissed her sister impulsively. 
She was crying, but she did not want Alma to see 
her tears or know of her great heartache. 

“You are different from me, dear," she said 
tenderly, “and Fm very glad that you are, little 
sister; I could never be happy away from my world 
of make-believe people! It's in me to play the game 
and to love it from beginning to end!" 

Again, the inevitable lie! And while she was 
speaking she was cherishing in her heart the likeness 
of Steve and an imaginary house of dreams. 


Chapter VI 

In October, a month after her sister's marriage, 
Laura Marvine made her debut as an emotional 
star in David Warrington's production of “Safe 
People". And after witnessing the premier per- 
formance, the critics rose up in a body and pro- 
claimed her the “Genius of the most powerful play 
in America." 

“A comedienne," they marvelled, “ has proved to be 
a tragedienne in disguise. Miss Marvine in the 
character of the unlovely, neglected spinster who 
sacrificed her life and happiness for her younger 
sister, has won the greatest success of her career." 

The few words of praise by Stephen MacOwen 
in the morning Tribune meant more to Laura than 
did anything else. They were to this effect: 

“Miss Marvine has at last reached the goal of 
worthwhile objects." 


The Epilogm 


21 


The Epilogue 



remarked, 


CRITIC named Dirksmenter presented 
himself to the managing editor of the 
Tribune, one morning, five years later. 
“It's an odd thing, Joe,” the editor 
making a mouth of disgust. “Since 
MacOwen left us, we've been up against it for good 
dramatic material. Why don't you get busy, and 
come across with a sure-fire story? This Broadway 
mythology stuff you've been creating won't win us 
anything, that's certain.'' 


Dirksmenter removed his cigar and smiled sar- 
donically. 

“Bowen,” he said with quiet conviction, “I 
have a true story in mind, — but I shall never submit 
it for publication. The public would not find it of 
interest, I venture to say. It is a tale of unpleasant 
reality, and Broadway prefers the flavor of my 
mythology. You remember Laura Marvine, don't 
you? The Laura Marvine who scored such a 
success in Warrington's show, ‘Safe People', some 
seasons ago.” 

Bowen nodded, and Dirksmenter continued stead- 
ily, the smile leaving his lips. 

“I saw and talked with Laura, yesterday, for 
the first time in many months. Warrington reduced 
her this fall to ‘character parts,' she told me that 
herself. She actually laughed when she said it, 
too. Bowen, that girl has settled down to a fixed 
minimum wage for playing ‘bits', and she has 
done it graciously and without a word of com- 
plaint.” 

“A season or two more, and she'll be made a 


22 


The Epilogue 


wardrobe woman,” Bowen replied, shaking his 
head. “Too bad, Laura had to slump so poorly 
after her play of ‘Safe People'. She was excellent 
in that show for she actually appeared to live the 
part!” 

Dirksmenter smiled again, — the same rather grim 
smile that irritated Bowen distinctly. He knew the 
story of Laura Marvine's life, and Dirksmenter 
could afford to smile, with combined cynicism and 
sympathy whenever he thought of it. 

‘‘MacOwen and his wife sailed for Europe yes' 
terday,” Bowen said, at length, before Dirks- 
menter took his departure. 

‘‘Laura Marvine should have married when she 
had the chance to do so as did her sister — years 
ago.” 

“ I wonder,” Dirksmenter responded very thought- 
fully, ‘‘if Laura Marvine is not more happy and 
content with her lot than we are, ourselves, at this 
particular moment, — Bowen. She has no fear for 
the future and the mistakes of the past haunt her 
no longer. She has rectified them every one, and 
is at peace with her God alone.” 









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